Libration Of The Moon

Every morning the moon will have regurgitated another piece of my sanity

you’re thinking this will be another werewolf poem American raving lunatic pouncing upon unsuspecting prey when shadows are in highest contrast gutting and gorging on the men sniffing around the women before dipping under their skirts snuffling at their hidden notches then gutting and gorging on them as well

I can’t tell you what I did last night there was no blood or skin under my nails but my ankles were dirty and there were three brassy feathers in the cuff of my khakis I’d gone out drinking intent on an antique kind of drunk Dubonnet and lemonade at the golf course bar by the Seattle Slough after nine PM the smooth mown grass gone gunmetal all the way up to the fifteenth tee but what was it on the side of that hill howling at me why do I know the scent of windfall apples and discarded fried food in the rubbish bin that dogleg left with its elevated green all alone aside from the rubberized hum of lonely traffic whizzing away home

there is no hunger left in me today late in bed and quasi asleep men and women done up for a night on the town passing back and forth like fish in a tank I could touch them if I could move prove they are as consequential as the thick black hairs growing out of the pentagram burnt into my right palm

a quarter million miles away that rocky empty head shimmies like a chubby kid working a hula hoop I will be a happy man until the height of the black until my satiety comes into question my sanity gets nibbled away by the mouse of doubt howling out of the green cheese moon reminding me I have a thirst for blood in my blood

a poet from Seattle Washington USA. His poetry has appeared in print in publications such as Bellowing Ark, Point Nopoint, and most recently in Contraposition magazine. When not writing poetry he is a Human Resources professional, a repentant glutton, and a novelist specializing in the weird-fiction genre.

After bending the oracle, there was participation in voice of grievers. The child of sun was dead in arms of nature. It moves, when I thought it was stillborn, the history of mankind. In the saddest day today, I believe

We were fools- Running away from the so called labyrinth of life But only to come back with renewed wrath for each other. Was it romance? When we were inside your car, It was raining a little that night, And

A Colored Moon// By: Fareed Ghanem (1) A moon is red in three moods: When the ladies of high society kiss windows and walk out without lipstick, or; When white color is called red, or; When roses bloom in your

Sleep, O drowsy moon Laying on garden path As winter sets in. Condensing mist In foaming gist Plays with chill shadows.. Her abrasive form Cold as snow Stiffen all loves. Why she is awake still Like a haunted spirit Brings